Soul Gazed into Song
by princessofpyke
Summary: Some angel of music you sent, Papa, she thought. Six months after the events at the Opera Populaire, Christine struggles to cope with the news of her teacher's possible death. She goes through a journey of self-discovery that will change everything she thought she knew about herself and about love.
1. Prologue: Angel of Music

_Author's Note: Hello there! This is my very first contribution to the phandom. Ever since I heard the musical (and watched it) I been dying to write for it. And well here we are this is the recollection of my effort. _

_Now the story itself is mostly definitely inspired by the song "Beneath the Moonless Sky" from the-sequel-that-shall-not-be-named. The story will not even go around the mess that is Love Never Dies so do not worry my dear reader. What I wanted to do for this story ultimately is make the event from Beneath a Moonless somehow canon in both show and bookverse. I wanted to explore the emotions of Christine and how everything would lead to this event, hence why although this story is wrote in an omnipresent narrator it mostly revolves around Mademoiselle Daae's pov._

_I felt the omni would let me move between characters and emotions freely without having to compromise myself to anyone. I hope it's easy to get adjusted to. _

_Lastly, while this is an E/C piece its also an oddity in many ways. Erik will not appear for quite awhile since these first few chapters deal with Christine finding her way back to him and taking all that rollercoaster of emotions. Its also an odd piece because there is some C/R fluff because Raoul is great character who should not become a drunkard to make a certain other character look better *rolls eyes*. I am committed to remaining the character's faithful to their original conception, I hope I do a proper job in that. _

_Another thing to keep in mind is that this chapter is quite long because I had originally decided on two separate chapters but felt they fit better in one._

_Reviews are greatly appreciated! Any kind of comments and constructive criticism welcomed. So let me know what you think!_

_Finally I own nothing sadly._

_I have rambled quite alot now and the joke's wearing thin. _

_Let my opera begin!_

* * *

Christine Daae gazed at the clock, it was already half past four. She shifted in her seat lazily as she looked at the closed mahogany door. She heard the maids scurrying around behind it; she wondered when did maids ever truly rest? It seemed they went from breakfast to dinner to supper quite quickly, and in between they had polishing and sweeping and washing, with so many chores they had no time for anything else really. Maybe perhaps they looked to the night as a time to rest and do their personal chores? _Silly Christine, worrying about the life of maids_, she thought to herself with a smirk.

She couldn't help herself. She had always had a voracious imagination and an incredible appetite to learn about everyone and everything. It was no wonder her father had been always so fond of entertaining his little girl with dark stories of the North. Myths, legends and dark tales had been a common thing in the Daae household. Her favorites, however, had all been fairytales. She had the loved the kind with princesses, with princes, with witches and goblins and magic curses. Her favorite had always been Little Lotte who had let her mind wander. As a child, Christine, always mused she was Little Lotte, after all they both shared a wandering mind and a curious heart. Her father, in a chuckle, always agreed.

"My Christine, so unafraid and yearning, why, you could be a maiden in a story!" he said once in the warmth of their living room while he had read to her Little Lotte for the thousandth time.

"You really think so, Father?" she asked passionately as her childish frame stood up from where she usually sat. Father would always sit in his armchair and Christine right next to him on the great red rug. This was their favorite spot, where she would sit to hear him read stories and of course where he would often play his violin. Sometimes they would have guests or friends come over to listen to Gustave Daae play or just hear his famous stories of the cold North, but Christine always kept her spot. She was angered when anyone tried to take her place on the rug. She once stuck her tongue out at one of Papa's guests' daughter in effort to taunt her and make her sit somewhere that was not her rug.

Her father disciplined her for it but also laughed, for he knew him being her only parent and companion had made Christine a jealous child. He seldom thought of correcting the behavior, for after his wife's passing, he, too, had become lonely and sought the company of his daughter. She reminded him of his dear wife in spirit and in laughter.

Gustave Daae had always had a few friends, while his music made him popular his eccentricity made him an outcast. He did not mind so much when his wife had been alive, she was been the only thing steady in his life, his rock. When she died, however, and he had plundered into depression, many of his last few friends faded into the oblivion. The only person who remained and did not leave had been Christine. Sure she had been only a child but somehow only she understood. He was alone but he had her. They had each other and for Gustave that was enough. She was his best friend and he was hers. Never did caring, loving father Gustave suspect what a devastating effect his death would have on his only daughter. For in that room, that night when he read her Little Lotte for the thousandth time only happy thoughts were in his heart and he never spared a thought about what the far away future would bring. That he only saw his lively daughter beaming because of the great compliment he had bestowed on her.

"A maiden, Father? Like Gerda who faces the Queen of Snow? Or like the woman who is turned into a duck?" she said with a half pout.

"Oh Christine, you always need to be so poignant and assured!" he replied in smiles and laughter. "I meant I can _see_ you in a story. Oh yes. Christine the heroine of her own story!" he said rather triumphantly. Christine sniggered.

"Oh father, yes! I would love to be a heroine of a story like Little Lotte!" Christine said cheerfully.

"Little Lotte who led her mind wander…"he said in a sing-song voice.

"Little Lotte thought: Am I fonder of dolls…" Christine echoed as if the words were imprinted on her heart.

"Or of goblins or shoes?" her father said in a silly ghoulish tone.

Christine giggled and then her face went solemn as the next line came from her mouth. "No - what I love best, Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head."

"The angel of music sings songs in my head," her father repeated.

"The Angel of music," she breathed while she turned to the warmth of the fire. "Is there really such a thing, Father?" she asked.

Gustave's eyes widen for it was not like Christine to question the magic or reality of fairytales. "Of course there is such a thing!" he said eagerly, "why would such a thing not exist?"

"I don't know," Christine replied with sadness and as she faced her father. He saw traces of disbelief on her face.

"Have you gotten too old for fairytales, _Mademoiselle_?" he said in a proper manner but with his usual whimsical tone.

The silly expression on his face has gotten a laugh from her sad little face. It was always funny to see Father trying to act like a proper gentleman, even in his best clothes, even in his fanciest concert clothing; he was still a goofball and her father; her closest friend.

"No! One is never too old for fairytales!" she said heartily.

"Says who, _Mademoiselle_?" he asked inquisitively.

"Says you, _Monsieur_!" she laughed as she jumped into his arms.

They both chuckled merrily as his father almost fell from his old armchair.

As they settled down and Christine adjusted herself on his lap, her father inquired more from his child.

"Then why, Christine, do you question whether the Angel of Music truly exists?"

"Well, I… They…The girls at school….They said no such thing can exist! They even said the story of _The White Duck_ is a lie because women can't turn into ducks!" Christine replied all at once.

"Well, well," her father said while scratching his small beard, "if they say so then it must be true."

Christine's face fell and before she could protest, he spoke again. "However, I must say I wouldn't want to say that directly to the Witch's face! For she'd turn them into ducks or even worst toads!"

Christine laughed so heartily and loudly that tears were streaming from her eyes. At once the sadness in her face had faded and her Father was glad.

"I just… I just pictured Clara and Marie as toads! They would look so queer, wouldn't they? I mean Marie's blonde curls on a toad's head, it's too hilarious, Father!" she said laughing still.

"Well serves her right for spreading such blatant lies. Magic is real, Christine, it lives in all of us," her father said. "Women can turn into ducks, you see, because wicked witches _do_ exist. Evil in this world exists and so does good, right?"

Christine nodded as his Father's face got more serious. "Evil and good, Christine, it's really all one in the same. I know this might not be the thing they tell you in school, but good is relative, and so is evil."

"There are good people who do bad things and bad people who do good things, do you understand? But at the end it's all the same: people! People who make good choices, people who make bad choices, people who make choices really. And sometimes people choose not to believe in things they consider childish-"

"Like magic?" her voice inquired.

"Yes like magic," her Father said in a nod and smirk, "But magic is real, Christine, don't ever doubt it."

"But how, Father? What are some things that are 'magic'?" she asked.

Her Father saw she was looking for something tangible to grasp on to, it made him both sad and proud. He knew his daughter was growing up and now as she grew older she would question things more and think more logically than before. The whimsical Gustave Daae would have to think of more creative ways to keep his daughter young at heart and keep her imaginative mind untainted by the gloomy reality of the world.

"Like the sun rising in the east," he said softly.

"The sun?" she sounded unsure, "the sun always rises, Father."

"But isn't it equally wonderful? Should we not praise its miracle and beauty? When the sun touches the sky and darkness fades away. When the sky has tints of lavender and blue, when the orange streaks paint through the sky like a ribbon of hope, isn't that magic?" he asked his daughter.

Christine's brows met and she thought hard.

"I _do_ love the morning," she said.

"But _think _of it, Christine," her Father said eagerly.

She closed her eyes and let her mind show her the morning; the perfect morning. She pictured everything whole without missing a detail, the dew on the leaves, the birds with their songs, the lavender of the sky turning into a clear blue, the sweet smell of freshly baked bread, the hope and cheer in people's voices because of the promise of today, father in the kitchen making her favorite toast and eggs. She thought and saw, and then she understood. "It _is_ magic," she said almost in a sigh.

Her father smiled.

"Father, go on!" Christine pleaded, "what else is magic?"

"Hm, what else? What else is _not_ magic, Christine? The singing of the birds, the first bite of a piece of cake, the sound of an orchestra tuning, _music_…"

Her daughter twisted on his lap in excitement. "Oh, music! Music _is_ magic! I _feel_ it. All the time, when I sing it, Father, when I listen to it, it is magic _always_. It is the most wonderful magic in the world!" she exclaimed at once.

Her Father once more smiled at her daughter's love of music. She was indeed his child for he felt exactly the same way, except, of course, that while Christine felt magic when she sang, he felt magic when he played. Nevertheless, music was _magic_.

"What else, Father? What else could be magic?" she asked, "I can see no greater magic than music."

Her father raised one eyebrow at his daughter's remark. "Well I can," he said simply to tease her.

"Oh, please tell me," she pleaded.

"Love," he answered.

"Love?" she echoed making a face, "How love?"

"Love _is_ magic, Christine, the love we feel for others is magic," he said in a whisper.

"Like the love I feel for you?" she said as she wrapped her small arms around him.

"Yes and no," he said hugging her back.

"This love I speak of is a _special_ love. Like the love I feel for your Mother," he told his daughter.

Christine noticed he had said "feel" instead of "felt". She was of an age where she understood once people were gone from this Earth, they were truly gone. So she did not comprehend why his Father would refer to his Mother in the present knowing that she was long gone. But before she could say anything of the matter, her Father spoke once more.

"You see, I _feel_ this love for your Mother because this kind of love never really fades away. I will always love your Mother. _Always_. I will probably stop in my death when I'm with her again," he said all this with a sad smile.

"This kind of love is a silly thing, you know? It likes to play tricks on you. You may try to deny or pretend it doesn't exist so it doesn't hurt as much. Sometimes it may hide. It may hide in shadows. Sometimes it hides in the corners of our minds and hearts, but it's always there. Love is a silly thing, truly."

Christine stood quiet. Despite how grown up she felt, she could not fully grasp what her Father was trying to say. Her Father chuckled at her daughter's blank stare, "Oh, there I've done it again, I've rambled without tomorrow!"

"Well, someday you might understand, now off to bed!" he said as he gave his daughter a pat on the knee and began to rise from his armchair. His daughter protested.

"But Father, what about the Angel of Music? Is that real, too? Is that _magic_, too?"

Her Father's sleepy eyes met hers and he nodded, "Yes, it's real. And it is magic, Christine."

Christine smiled so brightly and sweetly her Father's heart stirred.

"And this Angel, this Angel of Music, Father. Suppose it could visit me and teach me to sing?" she said with desperation in her voice.

Her Father was flabbergasted.

"Teach _you_ to sing? Why, child, you have a beautiful voice already!"

"Father, it's not that great. You say this because you are my Father and you wish to encourage me," she groaned.

"Not true!" he replied. He then took his daughter and lifted her up from his lap. He placed her on the ground softly and then knelt close to her.

"Christine, your voice is beautiful because you love music and therefore the music is within you. The _magic_ is within you," he said while pointing at the small place in her chest where her heart was.

"As long as you have music in your heart and soul your voice will reflect that. I can _see_ it in you and so I can _hear_ the beauty in your voice. Others will see that. And one day someone will see _that_ music, your soul's music, and will love you to pieces for it," he said taking her hands into his and kissing them.

Christine's heart soared. "Like a prince?"

Her Father chuckled in amusement. "Why would you want some ugly prince when you have me?"

She giggled and embraced her father. As they held onto each other tightly, she whispered into his ear, "I love you, Papa."

"I love you, too, child," he said with a heavy heart as a sudden thought of leaving his daughter crept into his head. He felt tears begin to well up in his eyes and he had to speak again to make them go away. He parted from his daughter's embrace and held onto her hands once more.

"When I'm in heaven, child," he said holding his daughter with a strange strength, "I will send the Angel of Music to you."

Christine's eyes widen and then sadden, nevertheless he continued.

"May he watch over you and protect you when I cannot," he prayed as he kissed his daughter's forehead.

"Father, no! You will never leave me! No!" Christine protested as tears filled her eyes.

Her Father smiled at her and then kissed her eyes in attempt to make the tears go away.

"No, I will not leave you,_ ever_. I will always be in your heart like music," he said smiling as he once again pointed to her heart.

Christine's fears faded away and were replaced by the warm feeling of love.

"Papa, you _are_ my angel of music," she said as she hugged her father tightly again. This time her father scooped her up, cushioned her in his arms and carried off his little angel of music to bed. And when she slept, Christine had dreamt of the Angel of Music and he had brought gleeful music to her heart.

_Some angel of music you sent, Papa_, she thought as the memory of that warm, shabby room slowly dissolved. She was, now, back again in the quiet, elegant waiting room of her fiancé Viscount Raoul de Chagny. She instantly reproached herself for thinking so harshly of her Father and the whole Angel of Music affair. She_ refused_ to think of her Angel of Music. _Him_. She pushed him back into her thoughts, where he belonged, where she could keep him locked up forever if she wanted. Forever locked like a secret that should never be spoken, yes that's how he _should_ stay.

She then found her thoughts trailing back to her father and she was pleased how the thought of him had not brought tears to her eyes. Before, the pure thought of her father would put a lump in her throat and would have brought rain to her face.

"But no more", she said suddenly to herself. No more silent tears would her father bring. She would try to forgive and to live, she would try as she had swore to him at his grave. The promise and the trip down memory lane now filled her heart with warmth. Yes, she would remember her father as he was and carry him in her heart. And she would live as he would have of wanted her to live, yes, she would.

The door to the room opened, interrupting her thoughts, and startling her. Yet she did not stir much as a display of proper manners. The soon-to-be title of _vicomtesse_filled Christine with the burden of behaving well and keeping poise at all times. Although she had always been a clumsy and restless child, she would _try_ to act the part, for Raoul's sake at least. He deserved that and much more.

As Christine turned to face the door, she was relieved to see her visitor had, too, been startled. It was the young housekeeper Emilia. She, then, shyly stepped away from the door as she realized she had frightened _Mademoiselle_ Daae.

"Oh, forgive me, Miss Daae! I only wanted to ask if you'd like more tea," she said as she looked down to her feet.

"Oh, no, don't ever apologize, Emilia!" Christine replied kindly as she rose from her seat. "_I_ was the one who had her head up in the clouds as I usually do. Besides, I don't scare quite easily!"

Emilia's eyes met Christine's and she managed a nervous smile at the soon-to-be Miss De Chagny. "Yes, _Mademoiselle_!" she beamed at Christine.

Christine returned the smile, she liked Emilia quite a lot, mostly because Emilia liked her. Most of Raoul's housekeepers and maids did not. They did not approve the Viscount's relationship (and now engagement) with the uprising _Prima donna_, it did not look well that the Patron of the _Opera Populaire_ was involved with the young soprano and much less did it look well after the catastrophe and scandal that she had been involved in. They avoided looking at her and they whispered things behind her back, and it wasn't like they were the only ones. The whole Paris high society was rumors and talk about the nature of Christine's connection to the _Opera Populaire's_ gruesome string of events that taken place six months back.

It was only natural, Christine supposed. After all, she was relatively poor and a woman of the arts who had a dark past behind her, she was not exactly Viscountess material. Nevertheless, her sweet Raoul did not care, he could care less what the whole world thought of his future bride. He only thought of Christine the greatest of things. He also tenderly cared for her and passionately loved her. For this, Christine was eternally grateful.

"_Mademoiselle_ Daae?" a voice interrupted her thoughts.

It was Emilia who had not left the room but rather gestured at the tea table next to Christine.

"More tea, _Mademoiselle_?" she asked eagerly.

She looked down at the tea table that stood before her. There was a perfect china blue tea set. It was such an intricate and lovely thing. It had sheer pink roses entailing the cup and other exquisite patterns Her tea was probably cold yet she did not mind for she had no intention of drinking it. She had only merely accepted it to please the fretful maid that was Emilia.

"I am fine. Thank you for attentiveness, Emilia," she replied graciously.

Emilia nodded with delight. She liked Miss Daae, she was kind and graceful, all while being strikingly beautiful. She was positive that her appreciation for Miss Daae stemmed from her love of the Opera. Ever since she was a little girl and her mother had taken her to see her first opera, she had fallen irrevocably in love. She had fallen for everything, the costumes, the sets, the music, the songs, the gorgeous _prima donnas_ in their extravagant dresses and flowing long hair. It was like a never ending dream, just like a childhood fairytale only it was _real_. She would spend most of little her salary in shabby seats for operas. She cared little whether the opera was good or bad, she only wanted to be there. She wanted to disappear for a minute and only exist _there_ in the opera itself.

Somehow Christine Daae reminded her exactly of that sentiment. She had just that _feeling_ to her. She was small yet grand at the same time. Even in the plainness and uptightness of the maroon dress she wore, she looked ever so young and magnificent. Her hair was of a rich brown color and matched her gentle eyes. She had it up, of course, as most women would wear it, yet she remembered how she had worn it down the first times she began coming to _Monsieur_ De Chagny's home. She most likely had worn it down at all times in the opera. Emilia reminisced how beautiful and perfect she had looked in her debut; her rendition of "Think of Me" had moved her to tears. Yet she did not dare share with Christine her admiration for her or opera, in general, in fear she would think of her as nothing more than a silly girl. She wished nothing less but to embarrass herself in front of her.

The once star soprano of the _Opera Populaire_ smiled at her once again and then spoke. "Would you happen to know if _Monsieur_ De Chagny will be home soon?"

"To be honest Miss Daae, he should have been back half an hour ago," she answered trying not to sound worried.

"It is very like Raoul to get distracted in other affairs. Don't you agree?" Christine said with a short chuckle.

Emilia grinned at the thought. Lovely _Monsieur_ De Chagny, while very charming and good-natured, was very easily distracted with things. He often came home rambling about the latest political gossip or who he had encountered on his way home. He was a sweet man but rather absent minded at times. A bit more or less like his bride-to-be, Emilia supposed.

"I suppose it is my fault for my inviting myself to supper!" Christine joked while she sat back in the cushioned sofa.

"Oh, no don't you _ever_ think that, _Mademoiselle_! We are very pleased to have you. _I_ am pleased to have you. And _Monsieur_ De Chagny was very pleased to know you were coming!" Emilia argued

Christine smiled and nodded, "Raoul is always very eager to see me. He is so kind and gentle to me. I am grateful."

Emilia beamed. "And you should be. He loves you to bits! He is completely devoted to you, _Mlle_. And if I may…"

Emilia quieted down as if she were waiting for an approval to continue, this amused Christine.

"You may," she said trying to sound as polite as possible when all she really wanted was to laugh at the fact she had been asked for permission to speak.

"Thank you, Miss Daae," Emilia said gratefully, "and if I may, I have never seen a man so devoted to a woman. Oh Miss Daae, how he _loves_ you so. He only speaks of you, the highest words and praises, of course, and he only _thinks_ of you. Why the other night he went to the opera at the Nouveau Theatre and he recounted to me how it made him miss you terribly. He is the sweetest! Frankly I cannot imagine another man capable of loving you as much as the Viscount does."

_I can, _her mind echoed suddenly. Christine became angered at the thought that had occurred to her. How dare she compare that man, that _thing_ (as Raoul had said), to her fiancé and how _dare_ she place them side by side? They were not the same! Not one bit! And anyhow she had chosen Raoul, she _loved _Raoul. The thought of _him_, her pretend angel of music who had deceived her, made her heart heavy. She could not afford to spare him a thought or passing prayer. She simply _could not_.

"Miss Daae?" Emilia said interrupting her stream of conscious.

"Oh, yes?" Christine said trying to regain her thoughts.

"Oh, you looked flustered. Did I say something wrong?" Emilia asked worriedly.

"No, you did not, dear Emilia. I am afraid I thought of _wrong _things, though," she replied duly.

Before Emilia could reply the doorbell rang.

"_Monsieur_ De Chagny!" Emilia said in glee, "I'll tell him you're here! He'll be delighted to see you!"

Christine sighed once Emilia was out the door. She tried to fix herself before she saw Raoul. She did not wish to burden him with any thoughts possible unhappiness in her heart. The unhappiness and angst was gone, the past was gone. They were just days away from their marriage, it was only joy that should fill her heart and _yet…_

Before her thoughts could wonder to dark places, he arrived and only light filled the room. A light that pierced the loneliness of her heart, that was only, of course, Raoul, only _he_ could do such a thing.

She saw him at once; his handsome face, his kind blue eyes, he ever so beautiful in his brown suit (was it new?), he was _perfection_ all around. She suddenly felt unworthy and clumsy, yet as he said her name and flew straight to her, she forgot all those thoughts of inadequacy. The pair of strong arms embraced her and she felt safe and warm all over. The feeling of comfort, that feeling of profound safeness, is what she loved most about Raoul. She then realized her feet could not touch the ground and the embrace was getting tighter.

"Raoul," she breathed in laughter, "put me down!"

When he realized how high he had Christine in the air, he, too, laughed. "Forgive me, my love," he said placing her gently on the floor.

"I get careless and too childishly happy when I see you," he said placing a hand on Christine's cheek. Her heart soared at the touch and she responded with a sweetest smile she could muster.

Christine then noticed Emilia was still in the same room. Upon being discovered, Emilia shyly excused herself and said she needed to make sure the bread was baked. Once the housekeeper left the room, Raoul chuckled and then explained to Christine that the bread was baked each morning therefore making Emilia a terrible liar.

"Oh, she's a romantic at heart, Christine, she can't help it," Raoul said with a smile on his lips.

Christine agreed with his remark and added that she thought of Emilia of a good heart and recollected to him how she had praised Raoul's love for her.

"That's very kind of her! She perhaps exaggerates me, I believe," he said with an unusual boyish shyness.

"Oh, Raoul don't be silly! You are quite the most affectionate and extraordinary individual," Christine praised.

"You really believe so?" he asked.

"I know so," Christine responded.

His eyes met hers and she knew at once what they said. She got close to him, so close his scent filled her. And then before she could say a word, he kissed her lips. The kiss was tender and gentle, she felt dizzy and at bliss at the same time. How kisses could create such conflicting emotions she could not understand (_such conflicting ones indeed_). Yet she did not question it either. As their embrace ended, Raoul breathed an "I love you" and her heart swelled up with happiness.

"Here, these are for you," Raoul said presenting Christine with a dozen roses. She had been in such a love spell with him that she had not noticed the bouquet of roses he had been carrying around. They were fresh and still smelled of spring but they were _pink_. A bright summery pink. While she appreciated the pink roses she preferred red, yet such details were mundane and meant nothing next to Raoul's grandiose flower gesture.

"They're beautiful! Thank you!," Christine said happily as she took the huge bouquet into her hands. Raoul smiled at his fiancé's reaction and then proceeded to the bar. He popped open a bottle of champagne and poured it into two glasses.

"You will never know who I encountered on my way home," Raoul began.

Christine sniggered as she remembered how Emilia and her had mused about Raoul's easy distractions to people and places.

"_Monsieur_ Boyer, of course! Do you remember him, Christine?" Raoul continued.

"No, I do not really," she said trying to recollect the man's name and face.

"Well, I didn't really expect you to remember him! We met a while ago, two months ago in passing actually. I remember introducing him to you but you were distracted. Your mind seemed somewhere else, but then again your mind _always_ seems somewhere else, my love," he said in half a smile, half a laugh.

Raoul seemed in such a giddy mood to Christine. While he was always been her ray of sunshine, today his mood seem particularly more upbeat than usual. As he approached her with two glasses of champagne, she couldn't help question the entirety of the situation.

"What are we celebrating, Raoul?" Christine asked curiously as she took the glass from him.

"Our engagement, of course! Our wedding, I could also suppose! But it is our _freedom_. Today we celebrate our freedom, Christine," he said as he toasted Christine's glass

"Our freedom? Raoul, I do not comprehend."

"Our freedom, my love. The past is dead now. The ghost of memories which have haunted our love is dead," he said breathlessly. "The _Opera Populaire_ has burned down."


	2. A Night at The Opera

**A/N: Ok, first of all, sorry for taking sooo long to upload! This chapter was indeed a monster. I had to include all these scenes in this chapter therefore making this a long read. However I hope they are a pleasure to read as they were a pleasure to write.**

**Of course, I suppose it's about time the ocs come out. I hope you get cozy with them because one in particular plays crucial part in the plot. We will re-visit old friends in upcoming chapters.**

**Again no Erik, please expect no Erik for quite awhile. And yet he lives very alive and well in Christine's head! **

**Again, any kind of feedback is appreciated! Finally I expect to work on my next chapter soon and yes it will be less of the monster than this one! xx**

* * *

Christine felt like she had been submerged into cold water. Her glass of champagne slipped from her hands but Raoul caught it before it could touch the ground.

"_Burnt_? Gone? All gone?" she managed to say.

"For god's sake, Christine, sit down," he said pushing her down to the couch in sudden urgency. He had been afraid she would faint, and she probably would of if he had not made her take a seat. She had been getting light-headed and dizzy. Yet she had to recollect herself, she had too many questions to ask, too many things that needed to be answered.

"Wh-what do you mean it has burned down, Raoul?" she said weakly.

"Christine…Please take it easy," he said softly as he knelt next to her. He pushed the loose strands of hair out of her face in hopes his display of affection would calm her down but his silence made her fret more.

"What do you mean it has _burned_ down, Raoul?" she asked again with sudden strength in her voice.

"Christine, please, I did not think the news would have such an impact on you. You must not agitate yourself! You do not seem well," he said concerned.

"I am well," she lied. She could barely make out Raoul's voice as he spoke again. She felt as she were on a boat swaying side to side, the waves gently rocking her body. The world grew dark around her. _The _Opera Populaire_ burnt down. Gone._

It had been_ her_ opera house; her foster home. When her father died and the world had not wanted her, only the opera house had welcomed her. In the darkness of being an orphan child only the opera house had shown her light. It was not simply the house itself, it was _all_ its residents. Madame Giry took it upon herself to teach Christine ballet and look for a suitable parent for the young orphan girl. Meg became her friend and she and her had laughed and sang through the corridors of the great house. The sound of the orchestra tuning before every rehearsal was her nightly lullaby. Even unpleasant Buquet, who told the most wonderfully frightful tales, had been part of her daily life. How she and the other ballet girls had squirmed in delight to even his most gruesome stories and legends! Even _Monsieur_ Reyer in his quirky voice and his strict ways, how he had looked out for her and encouraged her voice.

_Her voice_, she had found her voice there. She had _always_ had her voice, of course, but in the obscure giant that had been the opera house her voice had flourished. In spite of the winter that had been her father's death, in spite of the coldness of the lonely days and hours, in spite of the barren soil that had been her aching heart, her voice had bloomed like a flower stretching out to grasp sunlight in darkness. It was not particularly an effort of her own. Someone had dug deep into her soul and pulled the weeds of fear and despair that had grown inside of her ever since her father left. Someone had then planted seeds of promise and hope and music. Someone had sang to her in the wasteland that been her broken heart and filled every gap with pure music, _his music_. Someone had sang songs in her head. _Someone._

The flood of memories sent her body into a paralyzed state. Her body alone in the darkness; the sea of memories. She then heard Raoul's voice in a distance. Like a lighthouse in a storm, she followed the voice. He seem to shout for water.

Slowly her vision returned and she saw in fuzzy colors the young maid run towards them with a bucket of water and a towel. Raoul began to earnestly wipe her face with the wet towel in silly hopes it would bring her back into the world. She then heard Emilia's voice.

"Would you like me to bring some salt? Suppose I brought some salt? A good whiff of that could bring her back into her senses. Suppose she needs to eat? Maybe she was starving waiting for supper. Oh, how did I not offer her something to eat?! I am terrible. Oh, _Monsieur _Raoul, if your darling Christine dies it will because of me, the clumsy maid who forgot to offer the lady something to eat! I am so sorry, _Monsieur_, please forgive me!" she cried.

"Don't you fret now, too, Emilia! She is_ not_ dying and she would definitely not die over you forgetting to bring biscuits with the tea," Raoul said in annoyance.

"But _Monsieur_!" Emilia protested.

"_Monsieur le Vicomte_ is right, Emilia," Christine said suddenly in a daze.

"Christine!" Raoul said grasping her.

She was back. The world was clear and alive now. She had left the ocean of her memories and she did not know when she would be called back again. To be in Raoul's arms in that moment was a sign she had momentarily escaped that realm of pain.

"I am fine, Raoul. I was just gone for a moment, that's all," she said trying to push herself up in her seat.

"Do not stress yourself, Christine," Raoul advised as he placed the wet towel once again on her head.

"I do not _stress_. I am fine now. I just simply had a moment," she replied taking hold of Raoul's wet towel and securing it over her forehead. Still he would not stop trying to take the towel back.

"I _am_ fine, Raoul," she said now more firmly.

Raoul saw the determination in her eyes. When Christine said she was fine, she was _fine_. And Raoul knew better than to insult her by continuing to treat her like a sickly child. She liked to remind him every so often that she was not a child and should not be treated as much. He honestly could not help treating her so, especially when she got like this; in his eyes she became so weak and helpless. His Little Lotte, oh, if only she knew how his heart ached to see her like this. He did not wish to make her feel childish but he was overprotective by nature and had reasons to be like that with her._ Because_ of all they had been through…

Nevertheless he nodded, shook the thoughts away, and kissed her hand as he rose to his feet.

"Should I bring the salts, _Monsieur_?" Emilia asked dumbly.

Raoul's eyes met Christine's and she him a curt nod.

"Yes, Emilia, do bring salts, just in case Miss Daae needs them again," he said reassuringly.

The fretful thing scurried her way to the kitchen in a rush to bring the fragile future _comtesse_ some salts. As she exited, Raoul then looked again to Christine who seemed more put together than before.

"That was clever of you," Raoul smirked trying to break the tension, "It was a good idea to send her off. She is quite a gossip, like all maids, naturally."

Christine tried to return the smile but she could not spare one. She dare not stand in fear Raoul would try to get her to sit down. She did not want to be reduced to a state of helplessness again. She would have to choose her words accordingly and appear to not fret, she could not afford him omitting any details or choosing to conceal anything. She needed to know _everything_.

"Raoul, if you please," she said with eagerness in her voice, "what do you mean it has burned down?"

"Alright, my love, I suppose this is my fault, to have approached the subject so blatantly. Oh curse me and my insensitivity," he said swallowing the remaining champagne of his glass.

He placed the glasses, his empty one and Christine's full one, on the bar. He then faced Christine once more as she removed the wet towel from her forehead. She could see in his eyes that he was trying to thread around the subject carefully.

"_Monsieur_ Boyer, Christine," he began, "if you do not remember him, was one of the gentlemen who had been interested in purchasing the _Opera Populaire_."

How could she have forgotten? It had been a cold day and Christine had worn green. She remembered the color because she recalled _Monsieur_ Boyer saying how lovely the dress looked on her. Christine had explained to him that while it was lovely it was also quite uncomfortable. Raoul had exchanged a few words with him, all them about the abandoned theater.

Ever since that the events of _Don Juan Triumphant_ had taken place, the opera house had gone from manager to owner to proprietor. They would last a month or two, sometimes only a week. Every attempt to rebuild, refurbish or revive the theater ended in tragedy or an unexplainable event. It was the curse of the opera house, people murmured, it was its curse to remain in obscurity and in darkness, it wanted to be forgotten, to slip into the night and be absorbed whole. Christine was unsure if it was the opera who wanted to be forgotten itself but rather its ghost. Maybe it was the once burning heart and now decaying genius who wanted to fade away. She quickly avoided that thought trail.

Raoul continued.

"Monsieur Boyer approached me today in hopes of sharing the riveting gossip that was sweeping the streets. A gossip I did not know about, the scandal of the hour, indeed. It was the story about how just two nights ago the once powerful _Opera Populaire_ had been burned to the ground. The mighty theater is now ashes, Christine."

As tears filled Christine's eyes he rushed to her side.

"Oh forgive me, Christine, I did not think the catastrophe of the theater would bring about such emotions in you," he said as he took out his handkerchief to wipe the tears from her eyes. Christine brushed the gesture away.

"H-how could it not, Raoul?" Christine choked, "It was my home! When Papa died and no one wanted me,_ it_ took me. Everyone did. It was my home. My foster home in many ways. But nevertheless it was _my_ home!"

"Oh, Christine," he said in sadness, "truly I did not think of that. In truth I only thought about the dark memories you had with the theater. So in many ways, I felt the burning of the theater would exhume you from the hurt of the past. I truly did not think of other ways you were attached to it, forgive me."

"Dark memories?" she cried impulsively.

"Christine, you know very well what I am referring to," he replied simply.

Raoul never brought up what had happened that night in the phantom's lair. Neither ever did. She preferred it that way and she knew Raoul did too. It was like a skeleton in the closet they kept firmly locked away. After all wasn't he just that? A skeleton in the closet. But instead of living in the closet he lived in the caverns of the _Opera Populaire_… A fear suddenly crept up her spine.

"Yes, I do, Raoul," she said trying not to sound so agitated.

Raoul continued carefully as if he knew he was opening the box neither of them had wanted to speak about.

"Christine…you must understand that I do not openly rejoice the loss of the theater. I, too, despite all, grew attached to it and its colorful residents. I was its patron and I had such high hopes for it. Such dreams and illusions. I only dreamed of it and of _you_. I only dreamt of you in the leading role, in you with much success, in you with me, me and you together conquering the world of the theater! Imagine that! How silly those dreams sound now."

His face fell but Christine held no empathy. In many ways she felt the dream did not belong to him and it never would. It had been _her _dream and in many ways _their_ dream, an innocent dream that had turned into a grotesque nightmare. She shook her head attempting to stop the thoughts that were crawling through her mind. But it was too late for they were all over her and that fear, that wretched fear, was growing stronger.

"Raoul, please," she said helplessly.

He continued despite her plead. He needed to.

"Christine," he breathed, "I did not cheer_ because_ of the loss of theater."

She saw it in his eyes, then.

_He knew_. And he knew it would break her heart to hear it and yet he could not stop it.

"I-" she begin but could not manage to finish the thought or sentence.

Oh, how she wanted to run away in that instance! The fear in her was getting uncontrollable. She felt so exposed to Raoul's words. His words feeding the fear that was burning inside of her.

"Christine, _please_, listen to me," he said slowly as he drew closer to her.

"_Monsieur_ Boyer recounted me the whole tale of the burnt theater," he said looking her in the eyes. She tried to avoid his gaze but he moved her head to face him. Her eyes once more found the solace of his blue pools.

"He said that, naturally, they had to make sure no one had been in the theater in the time of fire. Even though it had been abandoned for a while, they still had to make sure no one was injured—"

"No, Raoul, no," she said weakly finding now no comfort in his eyes.

"Christine, you _must_ listen. They found no victims at first. But then they went deeper. Where you and I once went—"

"Raoul, _please_, no, stop. Stop this torment," she said now openly crying.

But he did not stop but held on to her. And when he began to speak again he held tighter to her than he ever had before.

"They found something, Christine. _Someone_."

"No! No, you lie! You lie! You liar!" she cried.

She tried to break away from his grip but he would not budge. He only held on to her tighter. It was certainly enough to bruise her but Christine felt no physical pain for she was aching in an entirely different realm of pain.

"They found a man, Christine. He was _burned_. Burned completely. His body and his face… _His face…_impossible to tell but they found _him_. Just him all alone in the rumbles of the theater. In between ashes…oh, who else could it be?" he said almost choking in a sob.

He had no pity for the burnt man (_or thing_) but all the pity in the world for the tears that were streaming down his fiancé's face. It hurt his heart to see her this way.

"No, you lie," she said with the last string of sanity hanging on her.

"It was _him_, Christine. He's dead," he said dreadfully as he strokeed the wetness of her cheeks.

She then slipped into hysteria. She sobbed so violently that she broke free of Raoul's firm grip. She fell to the floor and began to shake uncontrollably in cries.

"Oh say it isn't so! Say it isn't so! Say you lie and he still breathes. Somewhere in the darkness but that he _still_ breathes. Say it!" she cried out to him.

Raoul shook his head.

"Oh, Christine, look what I have done to you," he said as he knelt next to his sobbing Little Lotte.

"I am sorry, my love, you needed to know and I needed to tell you. I am sorry," he said trying to touch her arm. She jerked it away and proceeded to weep hysterically as she had done before.

"How can this have happened? How could such a cruel thing happen? Burned? Burned alive?! Burned whole? I thought I killed him when I left but no, the opera killed him. And alone! He burned alone! Where was _his_ angel of music? His star student? Oh, how can god be so cruel?" she sobbed now speaking to Raoul.

Something in him stirred. It was not pity for his Little Lotte and her fallen angel of music. It was something darker, something more passionate and dangerous. Jealousy.

"Christine, you must stop crying. He does not deserve all these tears," he said with a sudden anger in his voice.

But she would not stop.

"Would you cry so much for me if I, too, perished?" he taunted.

Christine broke away from her puddle of tears and looked at him incredulously.

"How can you say that?! How dare you say that!" she roared in a tearful voice. "And who are you, _Monsieur_, to speak ill of the dead!"

"How can you defend him?" he snapped.

Christine's gaze dropped and focused on the ground below her. He took the chance and continued.

"After everything he did! All the horror! The murder! He _killed_ but do you even remember? No? Maybe you were too busy singing with him to think of it! Oh and the treason! He deceived you! Your Angel of Music was nothing but an angel of darkness! Do you not remember _that_? How can you feel pity for that creature? That _thing_!"

Raoul's voice then trembled when Christine's eyes met his again. There was anger in her eyes and, one of his deepest fears, disgust.

It had not been his words that awakened the anger in Christine, words that she knew were true, but it had been _the _word. "_That thing_".

Christine could curse him all she wanted in her mind. She could call him foul names and wish his death in the cruelest of forms but she would never, _never_ allow anyone else to voice the same things to his name. She promised herself she would never allow anyone to speak ill of him in her presence. He deserved at least that. And at least _that _she could give him.

Christine's eyes now met with the shameful eyes of Raoul's. And it was he who looked down.

"Have you no pity?" she said sternly.

"This creature, Raoul, this _thing _as you may call him may not have been the best of men. He certainly did terrible things, I have never denied _that_ and don't you ever dare accuse me of forgetting that! For I was there and I was, too, frightened. I was terrified! All the fear I felt in those months, God, I hope you never feel or know, was real. Don't try to place me as a silly girl who forgets so easily the nightmare _we_ lived. I do remember and yet I can also forgive."

She stood up slowly, almost dramatically, until she towered over him.

"This man did terrible things, yes, but also did wonderful, _beautiful_ things. Two wrongs don't make a right, I know this, Raoul. And yet I cannot always curse him for everything he was or did. And yes, to answer your question, in spite of all, I _can_ pity him and I can 'defend' him. If you call my ability to forgive and to feel compassion and pity 'weakness' then go right ahead! For I shall not protest to it. I don't need to prove anything to you and in my grief, which I feel less incline to share with you, I don't have the strength to do so."

She finished her speech and looked down. She was weak from arguing and more from crying.

Raoul stood at once.

"Christine…"he said trying to reach out for her apologetically.

She was wary of his touch at first but then embraced him. She then begin to cry again. Her sobs were no longer hysterical weeps but soft cries.

"He was my teacher, Raoul," she cried as she trembled in his arms.

He held her and she wept on his chest.

"_My_ teacher, Raoul. He held me when I was falling apart. And yet I could not hold him—"

"Shhh, it'll be alright, Little Lotte," he said both brightly and sadly, "you owe him nothing and he was very proud of you. Do not feel he went out without a thought of you in his mind, for I am sure he thought of you. And I am sure they were only good thoughts and maybe that was enough for him to leave with."

Christine shivered in sadness but took in his kind words. Only Raoul could say things like that, finding the light in the dark.

Christine looked at him and tears were streaming down his face. The tears looking ever so silly on his handsome face. _Such a face should never be sad_, she thought. She then tip toed to kiss his eyelids in hopes the tears would go away. It was a childish thing but she could not help it.

"There, there. Let's not cry, boy who went into the sea to fetch my scarf," she said in a tearful laughter as she wiped the remaining tears from his eyes.

"Oh, Christine, I _should_ be the one comforting you! Not you me," he said shamefully.

"It's quite alright, you've said enough," she said now wiping the tears from her own eyes.

She then added, "Forgive me, I acted childish."

"I cannot forgive you for being the compassionate person you are. There is nothing to forgive," he responded.

Christine shook her head but he protested.

"It is your kindness and your sweetness that made me fall in love with you. I would not change it for the world. Your ability to care for the lowest of people and creatures, oh, Christine, your heart could hold the entire empire of the world!" he said passionately.

Christine smiled weakly and he then again embraced her.

As he held her, she let go of her fears. He was dead now. While the phantom had let them go that night in his dungeon of black despair, she had never felt truly free. She supposed she was free now. But she didn't _feel _free. She felt she would never be free. Even in death, she was not meant to be free from him. And more strangely, she also felt she did not want to be free from him. But she could not put into words how or why. So as Raoul held to her tiny frame she could only feel how her heart ached.

In that exact moment Emilia walked upon the young couple. She was carrying the salts and asked Miss Daae if she would be needing them. Miss Daae said she felt better but looked rather worse_. _Raoul assured her that that they were both fine and would enjoy some supper now. And while Emilia was not convinced she concurred it was none of her business to ask.

* * *

A couple of days passed and neither made a mention of the phantom's apparent death. While the rumor had spread like wildfire in the last days, very soon it seemed the world forgot about the Opera Populaire and the ghost that haunted it. All but Christine, of course.

And while Christine continued in a somewhat of a gloomy state, Raoul took it upon himself to make her feel better.

That Sunday as they took their regular walk around the park, he proceeded to ask a question that he had burned to ask for hours.

"Would you like to the Opera with me?" he said in haste.

She shook her head as she hadn't quite understood the words that had come out of his mouth.

"The opera? Why do you ask me that, Raoul?" she inquired.

"The opera always used to bring you joy—"

"That was before…" she protested.

"I know! But Christine, listen," he said as his eyes illuminated with a spark she could not resist to look away from.

"I know I have invited you before and you have declined. I know you have your reasons for keeping away from the opera. I also know you are not quite fond of my friends and the whole air of the Paris' _société_…"

Christine broke eye contact with him to look down at her feet. She felt guilty for not trying hard enough to fit in Raoul's world. He did. He tried and tried to make her feel included. Yet she always felt left out; like they all spoke a language she could not comprehend or grasp. She had tried to be as lively and talkative as ever in parties and social reunions, and yet she always felt odd. As if she were trapped in a bubble looking outward, only seeing the happiness of others and not being able to be a part of it. As if she were alone drifting in the solace of her soul. How could she exist between such bright, happy people and yet still feel so hollow and empty? She hated attending those parties for in that moment all possibility of light and a happy life with Raoul seemed hopeless.

She hated being reminded that somehow Raoul and her would never be able to always meet halfway. That somehow he would always be a part of a different world that knew nothing of sorrow or pain or sadness, a world so unlike her own. He had not known poverty or despair. He would never know how it felt like to be in the shivering rain with only a light coat and no shoes, how sometimes stars could not brighten up the darkest nights, how_ real_ hunger felt like, how the softest floors to sleep on were the wooden ones, how it was to be left alone in the world with no kind words from anyone, no compassion anywhere… He simply did not know and would _never_ know. And strangely it hurt not to be able to share the pain with him, she wanted to share her hurt with him and yet she knew she never would.

As she drifted back to reality, she noticed Raoul had been talking all along while she had been in her thoughts.

She hid the fact she had not been listening by simply nodding and listening attentively to whatever he was saying now. He seemed quite eager because his eyes were still shining for her.

"…And I know you are not right now in the happiest of positions to assist such an affair but I feel a distraction, however so small, could perhaps bring about the slightest of smiles to your face. You know, you haven't smile much since and I would really love to see you smile again," he finished almost out of breathe.

Christine noticed he had probably planned to share this for a while. Perhaps he had been thinking to ask this of her the whole evening or even the whole week. She couldn't help but smile at the thought of poor, fretful Raoul. Her darling boy who had fetched her scarf, always so preoccupied with her and she always so troublesome.

"See now you are smiling! It makes so happy to see you smile, my love," he said with the brightest of smiles.

He cupped her cheek and planted a quick deep kiss on her lips. As he parted the kiss, Christine sighed at the feeling of his lips on hers, he merely grinned as though pleased with the reaction.

"So tell me now, Christine, will you go the opera with me?" he said almost triumphantly.

"Yes," she said as she smiled once more at him.

In glee, he took her hands and spun her around. He laughed and she laughed along with him.

"Ah, we'll have an amazing time, just wait and see! You'll love the Nouveau Theater, it's state of the art! Sure it's not the Opera Populaire but nevertheless you'll love it, I'm sure!" he said cheerfully.

"Oh, Raoul, I'm sure I will," she said still dizzy from the spinning and the kiss.

And with that they finished their stroll in the park and headed back home, for Tuesday night they would have an opera to attend.

* * *

The clock struck six and Raoul arrived ever so promptly at the door of Christine's apartment that Tuesday night. Upon greeting her, he praised her beauty and dress and led her by the arm out the door. They climbed into the carriage together, him in excitement and delight and her in equal excitement but with a heavy heart.

* * *

Christine stared in bewilderment at the pamphlet that lay on her lap. It was _Hannibal_, the goddamn opera was _Hannibal_. She could not understand how Raoul could overlook such a small yet _particularly_ important detail. It was the first opera she had sang in. It was the opera that brought Raoul to her. It was the opera that sparked the jealousy and reality of her angel of music. It was the opera that started it all. And yet she looked and looked at Raoul, handsome as always in his best suit, and there was no trace of guilt in his face, no evidence of the offense he had accidentally caused her and her already weak heart. She then realized he simply did not _know_. He did not truly know what _Hannibal_ itself meant to her. He probably assumed the opera would cheer her up and perhaps just remind her of her debut. Just that.

She then felt guilt for thinking so rashly of the nature of his intentions, yet she could not help it. Being here again at an opera house had brought out so many emotions in her that sheer nerves seem to crawl on her skin. She had turned both nostalgic and depressed at the mere sight of the stage and her heart sobbed at the sound of the orchestra tuning, _why_ had she accepted to come with Raoul to the opera in the first place? It must have been those sparkling eyes and those sweet kisses. Yes, those pleading eyes…

_(That both threaten and adore)_

She shook the thought away so violently that it took her awhile to realize Raoul had re-entered the privacy of their box nine.

"Christine!" he said as he emerged from the curtains, "there are some people here who would like to meet you."

He held the curtain as a woman and a man walked in.

"May I present to you Cecile De Polignac and Marion Laemmle! They are both good friends of mine and wished to meet you. They will be joining us for the evening if you don't mind! Cecille, Marion, my friends, I give you Christine Daae, star soprano, keeper of my heart and the future _comtesse_ de Chagny," he said in much pride.

Christine forced a polite smile on her face and rose to greet the socialites. _Not more of Raoul's friends_, her mind sighed. She had greeted enough of Paris' _société_ for one evening. Her cheeks already hurt from so much false smiling and her hand tired from receiving so many pretentious kisses. Yet she could not show this to Raoul or his friends. She would have to hold the farce a bit longer, just enough for the opera to start and she could finally escape from the mindless gossip chatter.

The woman, whom reminded her of little Meg Giry mostly because of her golden locks, graciously nodded at the future _vicomtesse_. The man took her hand and gently pressed his lips to it. They were both particularly regal and polite people. Christine felt almost overwhelmed by them. It was the feeling she associated with being the poor chorus girl at the opera, the girl who she always seemed destined to be, or _feel_ like at least.

The man named Marion spoke first.

"Miss Christine Daae! It is most certainly a pleasure to meet you! We heard nothing but good things about you! But given the man that is Raoul de Chagny I am not surprised in the least." He said all this with a grin as he glanced at Raoul, who seemed rather flustered at the praise. "Indeed he won't stop talking about you. He's driving us mad, you see, Madame!"

He gave a chuckle and the woman named Cecile interrupted.

"Oh, Marion, don't be so rude!" she said nudging him playfully on the arm. She looked at Raoul lovingly and then adamantly at Christine. "Forgive him, Miss Daae, he's quite the jokester with all the most beautiful _mademoiselles_," she said as she sat Marion in the seat next to hers. Even as she sat, she was so graceful. She wore a sapphire blue dress and had beautiful blonde curls that framed her face. Christine admired her beauty, she was just the perfect image of high _societe_.

"But he's not so funny when you get to know him," she added winking at Christine in an almost playful manner. Christine smiled at her friendly gesture but found it terribly forced.

She then looked away from Christine and turned her face to address Raoul. "Raoul, you should scowl your friend for scaring your fiancé so cruelly."

Christine protested.

"Oh, not in the least, _Mademoiselle_! _Monsieur_ Marion was only joking!"

"See, Cecile? Even Miss Daae can take a joke! But atlas I do not joke!" Marion said looking sternly at Christine. "Why, she should only be warned she is marrying a man that is terribly in love with her! Oh, how I pity you, Christine, marrying a man who worships the ground you walk on. Indeed you are the most wretched of all women. Poor, unhappy Christine, shall we pity her, Cecile? To be loved madly by a man she loves back. Oh, the horror!"

Christine laughed and Raoul laughed with her. His eyes went to Christine and he smiled so warmly it made Cecile's heart ache.

"Marion, you scoundrel and devil, how I should scowl your foolish nature and yet this is the only laughter I have heard from my fiancé in quite a while," he said as he placed his hands Christine's shoulders. She smiled at the feeling of his hands on her.

"I am only trying to make your fiancé like me, _Vicomte_," Marion said grinning.

"I do like you already!" Christine said truthfully, "you are the most particular, _Monsieur_."

"I am glad you find me particular…hm, why most ladies would use more _heinous _terms," he said so devilishly that it prompt Christine to let out a chuckle.

"Well that's Marion for you, Christine," Raoul began, "He is a dear friend of mine and I have known him since childhood, always the jokester..."

"Never the groom!" he said.

Christine giggled once more at the remark.

"As _if_ you'd like to be the groom in any occasion," Raoul said slyly to his friend.

Marion chuckled.

"Well of course not! Not in _any_ occasion. But given the girl and the occasion, I might. For example, Miss Daae! Such a beautiful and lively lady, why I'd be honored to ever be just simply associated with her!" he said.

"I am honored you think so highly of me, _Monsieur_," Christine said with a curt nod.

"Why I do! Opera soprano! Why I was in your very first performance! _Hannibal_, the play of tonight, wasn't it? You were breathtaking as Elissa, _Mademoiselle_. You took my breath away as well as the _Vicomte's_, of course! Then, when you sang I simply was not breathing anymore. And Raoul…why he was dead, _Mademoiselle_! Dead and in love! He started babbling about a red scarf and how he remembered you and how you must remember him. And how he wanted to see you at once! He was such a mess. Why you are lucky to even stand here right now with that ring on your finger! I do not for the love of God know how he even managed to get the nerve to say a word to you when he went to your dressing room. He was a mess, simply a mess!"

Marion finished quite proudly as he saw Raoul had turned a crimson shade. Christine was all smiles at both the tale and Raoul's boyish reaction.

"Well I do thank the celestial deity that gave Raoul the courage to speak to me, if not I would not be here," Christine said gently as she glanced at her already flustered fiancé who was looking down. She continued, feeling she had something to say, "You know, _Monsieur_ Marion, Raoul has always been brave. He was brave that night to gather the nerve to talk to me and he was _brave_ many nights after that. I am thankful for him and his bravery."

Raoul looked up and smirked at her. He and Christine occasionally did not need words to communicate. A smirk or smile was sometimes simply enough.

"Now Marion, I believe you have embarrassed me quite enough for one evening!"

"One evening? The night is young, _Vicomte_! I have yet to pull out my share of embarrassing Raoul stories for Miss Christine's pleasure and delight," Marion responded tauntingly.

Christine laughed. "I would be delighted to hear them, _Monsieur_!"

"And you shall," Marion replied in devilish joy.

"Pray not!" Raoul said grabbing his friend by the arm, "you and I must greet the patrons of these theater as we agreed earlier."

"Oh, you and your silly politics," Marion said painfully as he rose to leave with Raoul.

"Oh why _my_ politics have saved your careless tongue more than once!" Raoul responded.

"That was _that _one time, _Monsieu_r," he argued.

Raoul laughed and shook his head. He then turned to address Christine and Cecile who remained seated.

"If you excuse us, ladies, we shall be back," he said looking at them both but fixing his gaze on Christine.

"If I find a nice _mademoiselle_ who wishes to share her box with me, I won't!" Marion added already out of their box.

"Oh, I pray you won't, so you can spare Christine your wretched stories!,"she heard Raoul say as he followed his friend.

Christine turned around to face the solace that had become the box with just her and Miss Cecile De Polignac. Christine felt uneasy as she always did when faced to chat with ladies of the upper _societe_. She felt alien to them and most of the time they felt exactly the same way about her. Before she could think of clever (not so clever as Christine was a terrible conversationalist) things to say to break the ice. Cecile spoke.

"Oh, men! Quite childish creatures, aren't they?" she said so effortlessly it eased Christine's nerves.

"Yes, quite so," she agreed.

"Anyway, don't mind Marion, he's a silly thing and he likes to tease! He teases me a lot, too. Unfortunately for Raoul, as he debuts his lovely bride to us, Marion likes to pick on him. A nervous new groom, why he's a terribly easy target and Marion takes the opportunity as he would…"

Christine was still listening to her but had turned to face the stage. The orchestra was now again gathering around. The opera would start in only a few minutes now. It was almost like the entire affair that was an opera was rehearsed and imprinted on her heart. She somehow could not wait for the stage to open up and to be sucked in to the world that was the opera. Oh, how she had missed this feeling. In that instance she thanked Raoul immensely for dragging her along here. How she missed the stage, the light, the air, the music…

"Miss Daae?" Cecile said interrupting her thoughts.

"Yes?" Christine said trying to seem undistracted.

"Why you were gone right there for a minute!" Cecile said.

"I do tend to have my head up in the clouds quite a lot. Or the opera it seems," she replied as she gazed longingly at the stage. Her heart was so full she couldn't help but to share her feelings with the _mademoiselle_ besides her.

"I have just missed _this_. I never realized how much I have missed the opera since I parted from it! Oh how my heart aches for it! The stage, the music, everything! Oh, _mademoiselle_, do you have any idea how it is to love something so profoundly and so intensely?" she asked breathlessly.

"I do," _Mademoiselle _Cecile said almost quietly.

"Well that's _how _I love the opera! Irrevocably and irreprehensibly. I simply cannot put in terms how or why…"

"You can't ask why about love," Cecile said in a sigh.

"Pardon?"

"It's from some Russian novel I can't bear to remember the name right now. Anyhow it's the current rave between some circles. Polemic novels are always a delight," she said as she began to fan herself in annoyance.

Christine continue to gaze at the stage. She began to wonder how terrified the ballerinas were right now. After all they would be opening the show. Would they remember all their steps? Would they fall or trip? Christine, who had too been a ballerina (a terrible one, too), felt their excitement and fears. How she craved those fears again.

Cecile noticed her glancing at the stage again and spoke once more.

"Anyhow, Miss Daae, as you were sharing your love of the stage and opera…"

Her cold blue eyes stared deep at Christine's. Then, almost with genuine curiosity, she popped the question.

"Do tell why someone like you would leave a thing they most _certainly_ loved?"

Christine swallowed hard at the question. It was something everyone wanted to ask but no one ever really did. Even Raoul had not ask her that question so plainly. Sure he had threaded around the subject and ran around in circles but he never actually asked it. He perhaps guessed the answer but wished not to know it. After all, ignorance was bliss.

"Don't you miss it?" Cecile continued.

At the corner her eyes Christine continued to glance at the stage.

"I do," she said almost weakly.

"While Raoul is the most conservative gentleman, I rather doubt he is forceful or has prohibited you from gracing the very stage he fell in love—"

"He hasn't. Raoul has never opposed to me being on stage," Christine replied hastily.

Cecile's eyes widen in interest and amusement simultaneously.

"Then?" she asked.

_Then?_ Christine thought. _Then what?_ There were no excuses, really, for there was only one reason. She simply could not—

"Sing. I _cannot_ sing anymore," Christine confessed painfully.

Cecile let out an unexpected chuckle.

"_You_ not sing? Pray tell how the once glorious young prima donna of the Opera Populaire has forgotten how to sing!" she said in mocking laughter.

"I have _not_ forgotten," Christine replied sharply, "I simply have chosen not to."

"But atlas the cat is out of the bag," Cecile said with a big smirk on her lips, "do tell why, _Mademoiselle _Daae? _Why _do you refuse to sing to us, your loving audience?"

"My teacher," she said simply.

"Your teacher?" Cecile echoed intrigued.

Christine now regretted the answer but between her taunts, it was the only thing that had popped into her head. She could not tell Cecile about the entirety of the affair of her Angel of Music and perhaps the _real_ reason she stopped singing, but she could tell her a satisfying answer to the least.

"My teacher has died…recently, _Mademoiselle_. And without him…without him I have no will to sing," she said as truthfully as possible.

"Your music teacher," she said in a daze.

"Yes, my music teacher."

"Oh pardon me, Christine!" Cecile said suddenly in an apologetic nature that almost seemed genuine.

"I had no idea! Oh, Christine all the pain of the world you must be in right now! And to be _here_ of all places. Why it's just a big flashback to you, isn't it? I am terribly sorry. I have been nothing but rude and infernal to you all night."

The sudden warmth in her tone eased up Christine's reservations about her.

"Well, it has _been_ painful," she said slowly.

"Oh I can imagine so!" Cecile said placing a hand on her arm in gesture of support. "Just to be here surrounded by all this. All this which reminds you of him. It must be terrible. A burden, no more and nothing less."

Christine only nodded at her words, it was nice to find someone who understood even if Cecile wasn't the most genuine. Her words still meant something

"Oh curse handsome and careless Raoul for bringing you here of all places!" Cecile said agitated.

"Oh no, don't say that, he meant only well. I don't think he understood what he was putting me through…"Christine said softly.

"Of course not! How could he? He is Raoul! Always so ditzy, wandering about, he never notices anything or _anyone_ around him," she said with bitterness in her voice.

"That _is_ Raoul," Christine said trying to smile.

"But do tell me, Christine…since we are having this conversation," Cecile said suddenly in intrigue, "about your music teacher."

"There is not much to say about him, really," Christine replied nervously. "I mean there is, but yet there isn't and yet…"

"Yet?" Cecile asked skeptically.

Christine supposed it wouldn't hurt to pour her feelings out to Cecile. After all she had started this lie in the first place and she could use someone to talk to. Someone who would not know the entirety of the situation and would not judge her feelings. Someone that wasn't Raoul.

"His voice. He had a great voice. A marvelous voice. A voice that creeps up on you. A voice so soft and yet so suffocating. I cannot begin to describe it. I have never had to, to anyone really. It's hard to describe, you see, because it plays in my head. And I can always hear it and therefore I had never had the need to recall it. I can even hear it right now. Perfectly. As if it were only yesterday, as if were only the other night…"

"The other night?" Cecile echoed slyly.

"The other night he sang to me, of course," Christine sighed. The conversation had placed her in a dream she could not seem to wake from.

"That night there was music in my mind. His music made my soul soar. I heard like I've never heard before! Do you know what that is like? To hear like you never heard before? It's like his whole song absorbs you until you are nothing but air and soul. Like something pulls you and touches every single being of you. Until you are not you anymore. Until you are one with it. Until you are a part of it and nothing in the world can extricate you from it. The music, I mean. Yes, I _meant_ the music. Oh it sounds so silly to say it out loud. But it's true. I feel so."

Cecile stared at her in bewilderment and morbid curiosity.

"Oh, _please_ continue, Christine," she said.

"Well, he was a great teacher. Very demanding, but very great nonetheless…"

"You were talking about that night."

"That night? Well, I suppose it was…it was something else, wasn't it? It was like a dream only then it turned…. A nightmare. A horrible nightmare. I was scared and yet I…I don't know. It just was like that. With him, I mean. He was capable of being perfect and almost ethereal, but he was also capable of being terrifying. I was terrified of him. It might sound silly. But how I admired him and how terrified I was of him! Two very different emotions and yet they coexisted in harmony. Tugging at each other but in a strange harmony…"

"It is a strange love," Cecile breathed.

"Strange, yes," Christine continued ignoring the usage of the word 'love'. "Our relationship was strange. But it wasn't always so terrible. Before Raoul and before….before I took the stage, it was very…very sweet. Yes, sweet. He was my angel. He taught me how to sing."

Christine smiled.

"He taught me how to breathe, first. 'First things first' he said to me, 'you must learn how to breathe.' 'Breathe from the air below, child. _Not_ from your lungs. Breathe from the air that comes from inside of you. Move the Do.' And he sang. He sang to me. He sang perfectly. 'You make it sound so easy,' I said. 'Silly, impatient, child, you cannot wish to sing in one day' he responded mocking me."

Christine laughed.

"But I tried. And I moved my Do. And I got better. And then, then I began to _sing_. And then we began to sing together. And it was wonderful. It was everything. Oh, he was my angel, he really was. He was my dream and he was my angel of music. And I idolized him! He was my teacher, my _friend_—"

_(my false friend)_

The simple thought snapped her out her daze. She was surprised to see Cecile so attentively listening to her as though entranced with every single word of hers.

"Oh, I have said so much. I am afraid I have bored you to death—"

Her sentence was interrupted by Marion's loud voice.

"—and I said to her, 'Darling, one more pearl and we shall inherit the sea!'"

Raoul laughed heartily as he and Marion entered the box.

"_Mademoiselles_, everything alright?" Raoul asked.

"Quite lovely, Raoul, dear," Cecile said dreamily.

"Is that so? Have you become good friends with my fiancé so quickly?" he said with smirk on his face.

"Oh, we've become quite close the time you were gone!" Cecile said almost good-naturedly.

"Really?" Raoul said looking incredulously at Christine.

"Christine was just telling me about her music teacher. It's a shame you didn't tell us about Christine's current mourning. It's quite tragic, she was in love with him," she said naturally.

Christine froze in shock and bewilderment at Cecile's remark. She did not understand where she had gotten such an outrageous conclusion. She felt even more crossed when she saw Raoul's blank stare as he could not process Cecile's words.

"She told you _about_ her music teacher?" he managed to croak out.

"Ah! Why it appears Miss Christine Daae had quite a life before Raoul de Chagny," Marion blurted out excitedly. "Do tell, Miss Daae."

"There is nothing to tell," Christine said confused.

"Now, now Miss Daae, don't let this fool of your fiancé intimidate you! Why he had a lot of lady friends back in the days! Why I must confess I wouldn't be surprised to know he still brings about some sighs to unsuspecting women…"

"Marion!" Cecile protested.

"What? It's true! In any case do not fret, Miss Daae, Raoul has no right to pass judgment on you," Marion said as he sat next to Christine. "After all, it is he who you are marrying, not your music teacher."

While Marion had meant it as a lighthearted joke, it was indeed a most sour joke to both Christine and Raoul. Seeing him stand there in confusion and angst arose the guilt in Christine.

"You're right, Marion," Raoul suddenly said between his teeth.

"Oh, Raoul, don't be such a boy! It's only natural," Cecile said so casually, "Why I had the most profound infatuation on my piano teacher. He was the most beautiful man! I swore to myself I would marry him and by God I was only fourteen! We are all silly as we are young and we all prone to the most insane passions. Is that not right, Christine?"

"I was not in love with him," she replied sternly.

"Of course not! But you were if not _attached_ to him?" Marion asked slyly.

"I suppose so—"

"Of course she was! You were not here when she spoke the sweetest of things about him. Such words of adoration can only be clear evidence of the most innocent of puppy loves!" Cecile said with a girlish giggle.

"She spoke _good_ things of him?" Raoul stammered still crossed at the entirety of the situation.

"Oh, Raoul, stop being a zealous man. So your fiancé had an infatuation with her music teacher when she was younger, big deal! Don't be overdramatic," Marion said annoyingly.

"I am not. I _understand_," Raoul said with a sudden coldness.

Christine looked at him and was sadden to find his blue eyes had turned empty for her.

"So Christine," Raoul said looking at her straight in the eyes. "_Please_ do tell us about your music teacher and all the _wonderful _things he was."

"He was not always wonderful," Christine said trying to shake off Raoul's eyes by looking down.

"Look, now you're intimidating her!" Marion said grumpily.

"Oh, Christine, don't pay attention to Raoul. He's a jealous, jealous boy!" Cecille said glancing resentfully at Raoul, "Was he handsome?"

"Who?" Christine asked in confusion.

"Your music teacher!" Cecile said in excitement.

"He must have been quite a Don Juan to capture your heart so successfully," Marion teased.

_(Oh a Don Juan, indeed)_

She glanced at Raoul who had his head down and was not looking at her anymore. She sighed.

"He was quite the opposite really," she answered.

Both Marion and Cecile glanced at each other in confusion.

"What do you mean he was quite the _opposite_?" Cecile asked carefully.

"He was hideous," she replied simply, "disgusting to look at."

"Surely you must be joking, Miss Daae!" Marion said incredulously.

"I am not joking, _Monsieur_ Marion. I am afraid it's true."

"But how—"

"I loved his voice. And for me, his voice was enough," Christine said in both seriousness and sadness. "And his voice was the only thing that was good about him. His soul was rotten."

Unable to properly respond to the nature of her statement, the pair settled down and asked no questions. As if by divine intervention, the orchestra played once again. The opera was starting.

Christine sat unmoved between Cecile and Marion. Raoul sat beside Marion and did not look at Christine for the rest of the show. She did not notice. By the time the orchestra had started played she was gone and entered that endless realm of music.

* * *

She waited outside the ballroom anxiously.

Raoul was meeting with other socialites and patrons alike inside. She had tried to mingle a bit with them but between Raoul's cold shoulder and the suffocating feel of the party, she had_ had_ to leave. He hadn't spared her a single kind gesture for the rest of the evening and she refused to spare him an apology. She had done nothing except merely share her grief with someone that wasn't him. Had the person chose to callously misinterpret the events was out of her hands. He should not be angry at her over that. She wished Raoul would spare her more pity, but it seemed that whenever the conversations were about _him_ he had zero tolerance and was all but hard edges. Marion and Cecile had left the box shortly after the performance and were now possibly drinking and laughing around with other guests inside the ballroom. She envied them. How she wished she could only be the same way and _feel _the same way. But atlas she knew she could not.

She played with the pamphlet of _Hannibal_ in her hands in order to stop her nerves from getting the best of her. She felt so awkward between the sea of people and she felt even more awkward outside the ballroom, as if she were the reject of society. Christine decided her life would then be an entire phase of awkwardness and not knowing how to carry proper conversations. She did not know how to be normal, she only knew how to pretend to be so. It was her father's fault. Of all his good lessons, he had forgotten how to teach his daughter to be normal. But perhaps it was that his father himself had not known how to be normal.

She sighed. _The crazy Gustave Daae and his oddball daughter Christine Daae_, she thought. What a pair! But they had been very happy pair. They didn't need parties or champagne or friends, they could be not normal all they wanted and still be very happy. In fact it was up to Christine she would move out of Paris and into the country, she would rent a cottage by the sea and live very happy with hundreds of cats and dogs. She could stay inside all day, not do anything, in fact maybe she wouldn't even wear proper clothes! Yes, she could say in her nightgown all day and just sing to herself her favorite melodies or songs. Maybe she could sing to her cats or dogs. Or she could go outside and sing to the sea. Either way they would appreciate her voice. Perhaps she could even take up writing. She could write a thousand stories and children's fairy tales. They all would have a heroine like Little Lotte and they all would be curious and brave. Maybe there would no princes who would make the heroine get confused and tired. And maybe, just maybe, there would be a happy ending in store for them. There would be sunlight everywhere and happiness to spare. It would be the happiest of ever afters. And in her lonesome between sea and stories and music and cats and dogs, somehow Christine she would be happy. But it was a fantastical idea, of course. No one can live by themselves in the middle of nowhere with just animals as companions, writing stories and listening to music all day. Why said person would go mad eventually.

Christine laughed suddenly at the realization she was just describing her music teacher. Except of course, he did not have animals as companions (_except _that_ cat_) and he did not write stories but rather wrote music (_very beautiful music_). Christine found it darkly hysterical that her dream was to become some sort of tormented literary genius. What else would she do then? Wear a mask and learn how to set up traps around her sea cottage? Take up a prodigy and teach them everything only to, then, threaten them once they found love in someone else? All these were black thoughts and even darker humor, but nonetheless amused her surprisingly.

"May I ask what is the joke?"

Christine snapped out of her thoughts to notice an old gentleman speaking to her.

"_Monsieur_?" Christine responded confused.

"The joke. You were smiling, I assume you thought of something funny. A joke perhaps?" he asked curiously.

He had a grey suit with equally grey amount of hair. His face seemed kind and his eyes were a soft brown. She felt familiar safeness with him, the kind she once felt with her father. The prompted her to share the thoughts that had befuddled her.

"I only thought, _Monsieur_, of my dream to become a tormented literary genius. I shall live in a cottage by the sea with six cats and fifteen dogs. I shall sing all day and wear nothing but nightgowns. And I shall very happy!" she said enthusiastically.

Oddly, he laughed.

"My, why that is a good joke!" he said in good-nature.

"It is, isn't it? And it's rather a good one because I don't write and I am allergic to cats. So I can't imagine living with one of them, let alone six!" she responded.

He laughed once again.

"Why, god, those are curious thoughts, _Mademoiselle_," he said.

"Indeed they are," she replied whimsically. She was happy he had not found her comments strange but rather amusing. Her father would have found them amusing, as well.

"Well, then, I believe I haven't introduced myself properly. I hope I didn't come off as the odd gentleman who found a lady laughing by herself and decided to join in on the joke. Because I really hate to be that gentleman."

Now it was Christine who laughed.

"Why, no you have not," she said curtly.

"Very well, then I am Mateo Montes, pleasure to meet you, _Mademoiselle_," he said as he extended to kiss her hand.

"Are you Spanish, _Monsieur_?" she asked suddenly.

"My father, Madame," he replied heartily, "I carry the Spanish in both name and last name, but I am French by heart, I'm afraid! But enough about me, it seems you owe me your name, _Mademoiselle_…"

"Daae. Christine Daae," she answered.

"Daae? That's a curious name. I only heard of two Daaes. Gustave Daae, the violinist…"

"My father, sir," she said quickly.

"Yes, I suspected so. And star soprano Christine Daae, am I correct in my affirmation?"

"Yes, you are," she said quite shyly.

"Why it is the greatest of pleasures to meet you! Pardon me, _Mademoiselle_, but I am great fan of yours! I saw your performance as Elissa in _Hannibal_, ironically tonight's opera, and you were in one word: spectacular! A delight for the ears and for the soul. I, myself, a man of music am humbled to be your presence and at your disposition!"

He bowed graciously which made Christine blush.

"Oh, _Monsieur_, I am flattered but really I am not that great!"

"Nonsense! Why I bet Mozart himself thought his music 'not that great', too! I suppose all great artists think little of themselves only to be corrected by all those less great than them. I feel greatness is invisible to the one's own eye, _mademoiselle,_ and you _are_ great. Atlas I should not act so shocked to see you for I partly knew this meeting was possible. I had heard of Raoul de Chagny's attendance, and naturally as your engagement to him stands, I knew I had a chance of meeting the great diva herself."

Christine bit her lip. _Raoul._

"I am hardly a diva, _Monsieur_," Christine said exasperated.

"I know that, _Mademoiselle_. That was the divine Carlotta, yes, yes?" he said with a smirk on his face.

Christine giggled.

"You know about her, _Monsieur_?"

"Who doesn't know about her? La Carlotta, heavenly voice, _hellish_ personality. Nevertheless I must inquire what does such a young lady as yourself do here alone without a proper companion or loving fiancé?"

Christine looked the ballroom behind them. It was so loud and vibrant. How she longed to be as loud and vibrant as the room.

"My fiancé is inside. He is with friends and other patrons alike. I am myself tired so I stay here," she said simply to hide the sadness in her voice.

"I see! The opera does wear us down once in a while. Sometimes after a long night of music, all you want to do is go home and rest in bed. Absorb the evening, you know? Sometimes people and parties can be overwhelming," he said with kindness.

Christine smiled warmly at him. It was nice to have a companion who somehow understood how she felt. Plus he was a decent man who reminded her of her father which made the company even sweeter. She pierced once again at the ballroom and found her eyes resting on a young girl. Luciana Pavarotti, the star of tonight's opera and the evening's Elissa. Christine felt strangely kindred to her. She was oh, so young, maybe eighteen at the most, and beautiful. It was her first time, Christine could see. It was her first opera. Her debut. Her dream had just begun and it was lovely to watch her savor the moment. She must feel like a princess in a fairytale.

(_I had_)

"Ah, I see you spotted little Luciana. Quite a performance she gave tonight," _Monsieur_ Montes said leaning close to her.

"She sang perfectly," Christine said dreamily.

She watched as Luciana's face was illuminated by the praises of the crowd surrounding her. Then, out of the crowd stepped a gentleman and she ran into his arms immediately. He was too old to be her suitor and too young to be her father. But they hugged and he lifted her up and she showered him with kisses. It was not romantic in any nature, but it was warm.

"That's her music teacher," Montes said suddenly.

"He must be so proud of her," Christine said with a sigh.

"Well he would be proud of her regardless. She could be terrible and he'd still be proud," Montes said as a matter-of-fact.

"What do you mean, _Monsieur_ Montes?" she asked surprised.

"I, myself, am a music teacher, Miss Daae. I don't teach tenors or sopranos, I teach children to play the piano," he said with a laugh.

"But do not misunderstand me, I am proud of my profession. And I am the most proud of the children I teach. What I meant was that as a music teacher you are always proud of your students. Whether they are good, bad or plain terrible. And believe me, Miss Daae, I have taught some terrible students how to play but even I found beauty in their musical abilities. I think it is because as music teacher you are always biased to your students. You only expect the greatest of things from them and even if they don't quite deliver, it's still the greatest of things in your eyes. Whether Luciana had failed tonight would have little to do with her music instructor's reaction. He would have loved her anyway. Glory or failure, he would have taken pride to see his little one on stage."

_Monsieur_ Montes stood there and observed the young girl and her teacher. He smiled sadly.

"Indeed he would. I always was."

"You've taught many, _Monsieur_?" Christine asked

"Many, yes. And how they grow so fast, _Mademoiselle_. My youngest one. My pride and joy, my star student, why he's thirty-six right now. Thirty-six! Do you believe that? How time flies, it only seems it was yesterday I taught him his _do-re-mi_. Now he plays in concerts and fills halls. I am quite proud yet to me he is _always_ a child. I refuse to acknowledge he's grown!" he said amusingly. "I suppose one cannot help it, right? If only people would stay exactly as we met them and not fade into people whom we do not know."

Christine couldn't agree more but said nothing. Instead _Monsieur_ Montes spoke again.

"Your music teacher must have been so proud that night. That night of your performance. You were perfect, Miss Daae. He must have been terribly proud. I know I would have."

"He was very proud," she said almost in a daze as she started to remember every single emotion of that night. She then smiled. "He said that the angels wept at the sound of my voice that night. And that no emperor could receive such a fairer gift than to listen to my voice."

"Those are quite kind things to say," _Monsieur_ Montes said gently.

"He perhaps thought too highly of me," she said sourly with a chuckle. "I was not the greatest of students. And he was, perhaps, not the greatest of teachers."

"I believe he was very proud, regardless," _Monsieur_ Montes said kindly.

"I like to believe so, too, _Monsieur_. I really do. I _need_ to," she said quietly. Seeing that he had hit a tender bone in her body, _Monsieur_ Montes felt the need to quickly speak again.

"How was he like,_ Mademoiselle_?" he asked.

"He was good. He sang like an angel. And he was my friend...yes he_ was_ my friend. I spend a lot of evenings with him. He was very strict, _Monsieur_," she said slowly.

A thought came to her. A memory she hadn't thought of in the longest of times. It was from when she had just met him. Barely days into the relationship. The beginning of their many mirror lessons. The memory had been unlocked quite suddenly and she said it out loud as it came to her.

"He was sometimes strict in the funniest of ways. One particular night, as we usually had our lessons in the evenings or nighttime, I brought my supper with me. It wasn't much of a supper, really. I was the Opera's orphaned girl and I picked up the scraps of whatever anyone could spare to give me. It had been some bread and cheese that night. The bread was hard but anyway it worked, it made the hunger go away and that was all that mattered. So anyhow, that night I brought my bread and cheese to the room thinking I could eat in peace before our session started. But alas I was wrong! You see I began to eat my bread and I was such a hungry little thing I naturally scarfed up the bread and shoved the cheese into my mouth. In the middle of my glorious feast, he _arrived_ and I knew he arrived because he spoke. He said, 'What on earth are you doing, child?' And I said, with a mouth full, _Monsieur_, I said 'Eating.' And he said, 'That's not eating. That is a pig being stuffed for the season! Eat properly!' I could have cared less and I did! For I, annoyed with his words, took another piece of cheese and stuffed right into my mouth. Like a pig! I wanted to annoy him, _Monsieur_. I don't know particularly why. I guess I was sixteen and a wretched thing and he was so particularly funny when he was angry. Oh I was awful, I suppose. Anyhow, after my improper gesture he simply said, 'You are the most insolent child in the world!' Then I felt bad not because I thought I was the most insolent child in the world but because I did not wish for him to stop teaching me on account of bad behavior. I apologized but explained to him I was hungry. He asked why I hadn't ate enough for dinner. I said I didn't get any dinners. Then he asked me about breakfast. I said I did not have breakfast for I was always running errands and working early in the morning. I told him my only decent meal came in the night. I thought he would show sympathy for my case but rather he scowled me! He said how dare I not eat enough food and how dare the insolent fools of the opera house deny me any food. He mumbled something about him taking matters into his own hands. I said I did not wish him to fret over my dietary habits. I explained to him, and quite proudly, I had often lived each day with one plate of food. And even boasted of going three days without absolutely any food except for water and two single crackers. Instead of being impressed by my survival skills, he then only sighed and bid me to finish my meal."

"After our lesson, he excused me to bed. I thanked him for a wonderful lesson, his much appreciated advice regarding my eating ways and promised to eat more decently next time, and finally I said I would go to my room but not to bed. He demanded I go to bed and do not dawdle on any more adventures for the day. I said I would not 'dawdle' (for I did not know what dawdle meant) but would not go to bed simply because of the fact I did not have a bed. He, then, scowled me again for not telling him I did not have a bed. I told him he never asked. He asked where I slept and I said that naturally I slept on the floor. He then even scowled me for sleeping on the floor! He said I could get sick or 'worst' and it was unhealthy for a child of my age to be place in such position. I told him I did not fear anything, not even the opera ghost; the rumored entity which haunted the halls of the Opera Populaire. At this he sighed deeply and then excused me to bed once again. When I protested I could not be 'excused to bed' on the lack of bed, he grunted and said I knew what he meant. 'There go, now, child, you are making my head hurt and it's getting late' he said tiredly. I bid him a goodnight and gave a short curtsy, as I usually did, before I left the room. The very next morning the most miraculous thing happened! The cook, Madelaine, was prompt on feeding me and saying I should join for breakfast every day. She even gave seconds helpings of everything to everyone. Ernest, one of the errand boys, said she had a near death experience with the Opera Ghost. And that Madelaine had taken it as a sign she needed to be a kind person in order to save herself from the devil, or something like that. To add to my good luck, Madame Giry, my dear protector, came to me to tell me that one of the girls who worked in the costume department had unexplainably gotten ill and had to be excused home. She said that thanks to this ill-fated incident, she had finally managed to secure me a room there. And most importantly a bed to sleep in. I thanked her tremendously but she said I had only my angel to thank. I supposed she meant it spiritually but one can take it either way."

Christine then paused and smiled as if only she knew the meaning of the sentence.

"That same night as I meet for our nightly lesson, I took my good portion of burnt bread and cheese, for miracles can only happen in small doses and so my supper was still intact, and sat in our music room. I ate properly this time for my stomach was still pretty content from breakfast. However as I munched on my food, a box caught my eye. As I approached the cerulean box, I saw the label and my heart soared. It was chocolates! And I had never had chocolates, _Monsieur_! Not since my father died, anyway. So naturally I put one after another into my mouth and it was bliss. They tasted divine and were perhaps the only decent sort of food I had consumed since I have arrived at the opera house and even perhaps since I had been an orphan. When my instructor arrived, I told him the story of my string of good luck. My explanation was that my Papa was watching out for me from above. He agreed with me earnestly. He explained that my father would only be happy if I was safe and being cared for. He said that while others could care for me, it was up to me to care for myself and keep myself safe. I nodded understanding the notion of his words. He also added that if I ever needed anything to not hesitate to tell him. I told him I did not wish him to fret over me. He said while I was 'a terribly fretful child', I truly could never 'fret' him. I thanked him for the chocolates for I knew it was him. And he said he felt I needed something sweet because he understood how life can make everything taste bitter. I understood what he meant exactly. I told him he was the kindest person I ever met. He said I needed to meet more people. I assured him no one I met would be quite like him. He only sighed and even though I could not see him, _Monsieur_, he smiled."

With her story finished, Christine sighed and looked at _Monsieur_ Montes who was indeed still here and listening to her. He simply smiled.

"That was quite a story," a voice came from behind her.

She turned around and at once she recognized the blue of his eyes. She would recognize them anywhere.

Raoul walked towards her, almost hesitant at first but nevertheless he walked towards her.

Christine was speechless. Had he had been listening to the whole thing? Should she apologize for speaking again about her teacher? Would he be angry at her? Perhaps even more angry than he already was? Did he feel betrayed by her? So many thoughts flooded into her head but Raoul answered all of them but simply reaching out and pressing his lips to her hand.

"It was quite a story you told, Christine. You've never told me stories like that. You should more often. They're nice stories," he said kindly.

She wanted to cry at the sound of his words. There was no evil in his words. No hatred. No jealousy. Just kindness and warmth.

Indeed it was that her story had moved him. It had made him question everything he thought he knew about Christine and her relationship to her teacher. He dared not keep trying to engage in meaningless feelings of jealousy and childish resent. He had heard her speak so clearly, so eloquently, so lovingly, it was useless to keep her feelings boxed on account of his own spite for the man. He had been important to her and he most of all he had been_ kind_ to her. And his love for Christine would overpower any sort of reservation Raoul could have about someone. Anyone who was kind and a friend to her would be a friend to him. _Regardless of the situation_. He simply had to convince himself of that, of course. But he could make the effort for her.

He breathed and finally said, "Would you care to tell us another story? _Monsieur_ Montes seemed to enjoy it."

_Monsieu_r Montes happily complied. "I would be so inclined to hear another, _Mademoiselle_!"

Christine looked at Raoul with glossy eyes. _He understands. He finally understands_. Maybe not completely but part of him understood. And that's all that mattered to her.

She tried to find the right words to say.

"I have many childhood stories with my father…"

"No, Christine, tell the ones you want to speak about. Tell us about the ones with your teacher," Raoul said softly.

Christine gazed at his face, no ounce of doubt in it. She smiled and nodded.

"Have I ever told you how he taught me to play chess? It was the most peculiar of situations, indeed…"

And so for the rest the evening the two men listened to the young girl recount stories of the man who had lived and sang to her behind the mirror.

* * *

She had fell asleep in the carriage and had comfortably slept on Raoul's shoulder. She had dreamed of nothing but was badly shaken when awaken.

Raoul delivered her to her doorsteps, apologized for everything and kissed her goodnight, atlas not exactly in that order. His kiss was warm and left her feeling quite giddy as she climbed the steps of her apartment.

* * *

As she lay in bed, she could not stop thinking of things. But things were, of course, only him. Her whole evening I had been flooded with memories and had ended in the strangest of ways. Surely she had not expected to end her evening with her sharing stories of how she had played chess with her teacher with her fiancé, who hated said man, and a complete stranger. And surely she had not expected to be so caught up in Cecile's callous words.

_"It's quite tragic, she was in love with him." _

_It's not true_, she assured herself. _She doesn't know what she saying. She is rude and spiteful._

Christine reasoned that perhaps it wasn't terribly untrue. She _did_ love him in some way but it was definitely not a romantic sort of love. It was a different kind, the kind…

_"-People do not admit even to themselves!"_

_Raoul was jealous and he said it out of jealousy_, she protested.

She needed to stop the useless thoughts and focus on her situation. She needed to forget about him, that was the obvious situation. She had grieved enough and cried enough. He was dead. Gone. Now she needed to move on. Just like her father.

She tossed in her bed and found she could not sleep. She felt so wide-awake, so restless. She finally turned her body around once more time and closed her eyes. Inside her memories, she opened a box of her own personal melodies. She picked one that would help her sleep. One that worked every single time.

The music of the night played in her head.


End file.
